


Grow(th)

by kayura_sanada



Series: For Good [6]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Abuse, M/M, Mentions of Rape, Nightmares, Past Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Practically Slash, Pre-Slash, Really It's Pretty Close to Just Slash Now, Ruminations, Slavery, Soul-Searching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-08
Updated: 2016-12-08
Packaged: 2018-09-07 08:15:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8790307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayura_sanada/pseuds/kayura_sanada
Summary: Fenris decides what to do about Hawke.Note: Please note the warnings for this part of the series. The violence and rape are only hinted at and from the past, but may be a trigger, nonetheless. If anyone wishes to read this chapter without these triggers, please let me know and I will help you in any way I can. I do warn, however, that these mentions of past abuse will continue to be mentioned and potentially shown in the series, as they are a canon/fanon parts of Fenris' life.





	

“Stand still.”

Fenris did as bade. He kept his back to the wall and his hands at his sides, despite how the arms of the silk robe slipped to the edges of his shoulders. Danarius smiled at his complacency, the man’s lips stretching over his beard. Without warning, the magister pulled his blood from him.

The swirl of magic around them shone a bright red; he could feel his limbs weakening, felt his body grow lax against the wall. He gasped for breath as his hands started trembling. Danarius’ eyes seemed to glow with the power he called upon; they glinted as the mage came close, caging him inside those arms. No matter that he’d had this happen countless times before, it still left his heart pounding. He knew better even than most what that power could do. How it could suck the soul from an ally, how it could tear about the Veil and call forth a demon of wrath and fire with little more than a wish. Worse, he recognized the feel of the man’s body heat against him, the scent of cologne and blood on the man’s skin. He only dared meet the man’s gaze when he leaned forward. He felt weak enough to fall, but there was no room to do so. Knowing it was inevitable, he tilted his head and opened his mouth.

But instead of the bristly feel of Danarius’ beard against his skin, a hard, rocky stubble scratched him. He jumped as the lips against his didn’t match as they should; softer, fuller, less chapped. He snapped his eyes open. Azzan smiled down at him, his lips kiss-bruised, his once-deep blue eyes glinting red as Fenris’ blood swirled around him.

“Kiss me,” Hawke ordered, and Fenris leaned his head up to do as commanded. His heart jumped as their lips met again, this time Hawke pushing him against the wall, tilting his own head and plunging his mouth inside. Fenris’ whole body shook. His knees failed him. His vision turned black. And still he leaned into Hawke’s kiss, even as his veins hollowed beneath his skin. The smell of blood overwhelmed everything. His thundering heart slowed. When his body failed him and he collapsed into Hawke’s arms, he felt Hawke’s soft chuckle in his mouth, against his tongue. “Good boy.”

He woke with a gasp.

For a long while, he just lay in the bed, his gaze on the white ceiling far above him. He waited, willing his body to stop shaking, his heart to stop hammering against his ribs. His lungs to stop gasping like he’d found air for the first time in hours. Waited for his body, specifically his manhood, to calm.

Then he leaned over the edge of the bed and threw up.

It took longer than he liked to get himself under control. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and got out of the bed only when he was certain he wouldn’t be adding even more to the puddle of bile on the floor. The trip to the bathing room was short; he’d traversed it hundreds of times since taking this building for himself. Yet now it seemed a trek to last a lifetime, one he nearly couldn’t traverse. When he finally reached the door, he stumbled inside and shut himself in, not caring that the blackness around him grew so thick he couldn’t see his hand before his face.

He covered his eyes with his clean hand and groaned.

Demons. Of course, it was a demon coming to him, feeding on him like the mages of Tevinter themselves. (Or perhaps it was the other way around, the mages mimicking their demonic counterparts.) Bad enough that, of all the memories he wished for, the only ones he had were of that time. But now they’d become more, worse. He’d never seen Hawke in such a context before, even after first meeting the man.

Through memory, he found the counter and ran the sink, enjoying the ease of plumbing, something only the rich could afford. He knew why these dreams had come. The news of Hawke’s association with demons – _spirits_ , he thought, sneering as he corrected himself with the word Hawke had insisted on using. As if there was any difference.

He closed his eyes. Yet Hawke had still done nothing but heal. Fenris had seen the man from the front of the Keep, his feet already moving, even as something in his chest froze. Hawke had done nothing more than block his enemy’s blows, the man’s assault too relentless for Hawke to blast him back with his staff. Instead of taking his chance, instead of sending an unfocused blast, even to defend his own life, Hawke had chosen defense. Even when he’d been about to die, the man had not called upon a demon.

He’d worked himself into exhaustion, only to wake up with relief to find this spirit of his had honored his renouncement of its help. Whatever the thing was, whatever it had wanted, he did not join with it. Was it because the creature was a demon, as Fenris feared? Or was it because the man simply did not desire to merge with a spirit?

He gripped the edges of the sink and bent low, thankful that he couldn’t see how he looked in that moment. Why was it that he felt so relieved? The danger had not passed. The man still played with this creature whenever they fought. Every time Hawke healed him, he was using the power of a demon. Yet, instead of harming others, as the mage could easily do, he chose instead to heal.

He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes. He knew exactly why he considered this so much. It was for the same reason that the dream had given him some perverse feeling of pleasure, one that made him shudder even now. That feeling had been very different from what he’d known as a slave. Physical pleasure was simple enough. It could be gotten anywhere. Here alone, he knew at least one of Hawke’s allies who would be enthusiastic enough to accept such pleasure with him. But if he’d ever felt that heart-stopping rush, that light-headed flood of energy, it had been before the lyrium.

It was a perversion, to see Hawke where Danarius had stood and feel desire. Even as his body fell into death, he’d responded like a dog in heat.

He grimaced and dry heaved into the sink.

The day pressed on before he managed to get himself cleaned and dressed, the floor, if not spotless, then at least dry. He’d come back from walks or practice, meeting with Varric or evenings at the tavern, to find the place cleaned somehow. He’d hunted through the entire building to see if demons or giant spiders infested the deep corners, but nothing. And so he found himself negligent in his cleaning, waiting to see if he could catch the culprit.

But not today. Today, he needed to learn what those who knew to fear magic thought of this ‘spirit healer’ business.

He couldn’t trust Hawke’s friends. They gave their loyalty to him just as much as – and though it burned in the wake of last night, he had to admit it – Hawke gave to them. Even he had found himself moving on instinct the instant he’d seen Hawke’s mother walk past him toward the guards’ barracks, Bodahn and Sandal in tow. He hadn’t waited for anything more; just seeing them meant something had happened, was happening. Something to do with Hawke. He had acted on instinct, nearly leaping down the Keep stairs and out into the night. On nothing more than a sick twisting in his gut that said that Hawke was not safe.

He could try to lie to himself. He could note that Hawke had promised to come straight back, and the sight of the man’s family meant the man had likely broken his promise. It would be a good excuse, if some sort of blind panic hadn’t drummed like a heartbeat in his head. If he hadn’t, at that moment, thought loudly, pervasively, _no_.

Even he had somehow been caught in Hawke’s orbit. Slowly circling around the man, his disgust with Hawke’s use of spirits and secrecy, whether intentional or not, had in no way stopped the visceral reaction he’d felt at the sight of the mage in danger.

He was not unbiased in this. The only problem was that he found himself leaning toward the side of the mage instead of the side he knew was right: the templars. The ones who recognized magic as a threat and mages as gaatlok about to explode.

Hawke had said even templars recognized and allowed spirit healers. It was about time he checked the validity of that statement.

* * *

“I know you,” the man named Cullen said, his gaze slightly narrowed as Fenris came to stand abreast of him. “You’ve been seen around with Hawke.”

Fenris could ask why the templar knew Hawke’s name, or whether the man knew Hawke’s skillset. But something in him stilled his tongue. “Yes. I’ve seen…” He hesitated. “Healers. Mages who have brought men back from the brink of death.”

Cullen tilted his head very slightly. A frown flitted on his face. “I’ve heard rumors there is a man in Darktown who does such things,” he said. “Have you a concern? Is that why you came to me?”

So, they were both fishing for information. But if this templar thought Fenris was talking only of Anders, so much the better. Even if the blond was caught, it would be no skin off Fenris’ nose. Unlike with Hawke, he held no doubt about Anders being an abomination. “That sort of healing is abnormal, is it not?”

The templar stared down at him. Fenris stared back, giving nothing. Finally, after an interminable moment, the man sighed and shrugged. “Perhaps. Mages can heal, at least a little, by using their own magic. But any of them with any talent inevitably turn to the aid of the spirits.”

Fenris caught his breath. So. It was true.

“Mages are the ones who pass through into the Fade knowingly. The rest of us see little more than dreams. Visions cast to us by the creatures within. We cannot know if what the mages say is completely accurate.” The man shifted where he stood. His armor clanked slightly at its joints. “We’ve had enough accounts, however, to piece together the truth for ourselves.”

Cullen stared down at him. Fenris waited.

The man sighed. “Demons walk within the Fade. Wander, more like. They’re the ones who feed upon our baser instincts, our hopes and our fears. But there are others, other creatures, to whom our existences hold little interest. These are what the mages call spirits. Most of the best healers have interacted with these spirits, even made contracts of sorts with them. They haven’t given up their bodies or blood, so they aren’t maleficarum. But they are, in their dealings, the most dangerous of the mages we face.”

Something might have shown on Fenris’ face, because the templar stopped his short monologue. In that moment, the world of the Gallows became loud. The sellers’ voices roared above the sea of sound around them, the cry of gulls overhead and the empty whoosh of the wind. He tried to steel himself, turn his face into a mask he hadn’t worn in years. “What do you mean, the most dangerous? They heal.”

“Yes, and because of that, many mistake healers to be the best mages out there.” The man waved a hand, dismissing the beliefs of the unlearned. The beliefs Fenris himself had fallen for. “But they are the closest to abominations we have in the tower. They toe the line between Circle mage and maleficar. Free and possessed. Even if they do not allow themselves to be taken over by these so-called spirits, they work with them, rely on them. In order to heal, they must contact the spirit through the Veil. If you came here wanting to know why we hunt this little 'rumor’ in Darktown, it’s because a spirit healer can turn into an enemy faster even than a mage of destruction.” Cullen shifted, putting one hand on his hip. “Anything you want to tell me?”

The man was likely fishing for information on the mage. He huffed. “If you know about him, then you know about as much as I.”

He was almost furious with himself for not giving away the mage when he had the chance. But if he gave up Anders, then he might also have to give away Hawke. And he wasn’t quite ready to do that.

He turned and left.

* * *

Fenris wandered.

The streets of Hightown were busy, as they always were during the day. Voices crashed and echoed around him, everyone speaking over one another into a garbled mess. He stepped away from those who walked around him, never letting any near enough to touch. Otherwise, his awareness of his surroundings washed away like a fog.

He should have known. How foolish of him. From the start, he’d been aware of Hawke’s strength. He’d thought the man naturally talented, unaware that the truth was even worse. Hawke dabbled with magics of the Fade, conspired with a spirit, and spoke with the creatures enough to even form an agreement. Hawke’s friends might be accepting of it, but the templars were the ones who dealt with these rogue mages, and they feared spirit healers more than any other. Which meant Hawke was even more dangerous than Fenris had ever assumed.

Not as though he had much left to assume, after seeing Hawke’s magic turn from that light white-blue to something more like yellow-white, then to an ever-increasing gold. All without the mage’s seeming to take any notice. With the small snippets of information Hawke had granted them, it was obvious, so obvious now, that the man had drawn more and more on the spirit he’d made a deal with. A desperate, dangerous decision.

But he didn’t know where else to go for information. Or what to do.

Dangerous mages were something Fenris knew well. Yet, for all the mages he’d met, he’d dealt with few who gave as much as Hawke. How many times had he seen Hawke helping others, ignoring the money even though he needed it for his own expenses for the Expedition? How many times had he seen Hawke race to someone’s help? He himself had needed to be the one to tell Hawke off for not protecting himself properly. For not thinking of himself first on a battlefield.

Perhaps that was the problem. Perhaps this was another instance of Hawke not thinking about his own safety as he attempted to help another.

But that explanation didn’t feel right. It didn’t sound like he was denouncing Hawke’s actions, and he should have been.

He’d dismissed speaking to Varric or Aveline earlier, but now… now, he thought it might be his only choice. Unless he wanted to continue bouncing back and forth in this hell forever. Asking the guardswoman would be a waste of time, however; she’d already shown herself so dangerously loyal as to attack him the instant he seemed to make a move against Hawke. The only other option was the dwarf. Varric seemed just as unfathomably loyal to Hawke as Aveline, but at least he hadn’t jumped Fenris yet. It was his best option for more information.

Decision made, he looked up, intending to turn toward the tavern, only to find his wayward body had already begun the trip.

Well. All the better, then.

* * *

Varric leaned back in his seat behind the long table, pulling the mug of beer with him as he did. He stared down at the frothy mess and took a sip. “Hawke told me, yeah,” he said, his voice carefully neutral as he answered Fenris’ question. “I take it you’re freaking out because of the spirit thing?”

Fenris tapped an armored finger against his thigh, wondering if he should admit it or not. Wondering if this was the wisest course of action. Tethras had handled the question with enough aplomb, especially compared to the guardswoman. But that didn’t mean the calm would continue,or that any information granted him would do him any good.

Finally, he sighed. “Yes.”

Varric nodded. “Yeah. Gotta admit, that little explanation got to me, too.” A small flash of hope, but then the dwarf continued, “until I went into battle with him.”

Fenris had gone into battle with Hawke, as well. Only, he was not foolish enough to be calm afterward; he saw the power in Hawke’s movements. Beyond even the horror of that unnaturally bright golden light. Watching him battle, watching those moments when he gave up his healing stance and turned the raw power of his magic toward destruction, Fenris knew better than to not fear.

Varric must have seen something in Fenris’ face, because he put down his mug and leaned forward, clasping his hands together on top of the table. “When I first went with Hawke to find some gold for the expedition, I thought the man’s reputation was based on his ability to call fire from the heavens or terrorize enemies into beating themselves into unconsciousness. I was even ready for some blood magic. But Hawke hardly does any damage to anyone. Have you noticed? He calls his lightning down only when the enemies are too numerous, and usually after everyone else has failed to take someone down. It’s usually a last-ditch effort. For him, a battle isn’t about how many people he can kill. It’s about how many people he can save. Namely all of us.” Varric pointed a finger between himself and Fenris. “I know you’ve seen it. You gave the idiot a well-needed talking-to even I couldn’t manage. So the real problem here isn’t Hawke, or his strength, or his choices. It’s that you didn’t fully understand the situation before, and now you do. So now you doubt. Again.”

The dwarf leaned back. Fenris wished he could argue, could say he’d seen something in Hawke that had made him second-guess the man’s intentions. But he hadn’t. Not once.

Perhaps that was why he was so torn as to what to do. He hesitated because he knew very well just how Hawke acted, how he fought.

Or perhaps he was allowing himself to be swayed by the dwarf’s words, by the bias he already knew the man possessed. “And the golden light?”

Varric snorted. “Creepy how pretty it is, huh? Yeah, I think that’s Hawke channeling the hell out of his spirit. I’ve seen it a couple of times. Saw it when Carter fell in a battle. Hawke poured on that healing magic like I’d never seen. The little idiot popped up like he’d been taking a nap.”

More healing. Always only healing. Was it an answer, or just an excuse? “He says there’s a difference between spirits and demons,” Fenris said, allowing the statement to act as its own question. His attempt at complacency didn’t seem to work, however, if the look Varric gave him meant what he thought it did.

“There is, Elf.” Varric leaned back in his seat, kicked his legs up onto the table, and leaned his hands behind his back. “I did the whole bit you’re doin’. Asking around, reading some books.” Fenris ignored the book bit. “Checked out everything I could about the Fade and its little denizens.” He lifted a hand to wiggle his fingers as if to show something scurrying. Something like a wandering demon. “You know what I found out?” Varric chuckled. “Turns out even templars have a hard time making this out to be bad. Oh, they can do it. They scream and cry about how dangerous spirits are, how scary anyone who speaks with them might be. But every single mage talks about spirits and demons, Elf. All of them see the things. Every. Single. One.”

It wasn’t something Fenris wanted to contemplate. The idea of Hawke speaking with such creatures. Getting near them. Touching them, and letting them touch him in return. His fists curled in his lap.

“Apparently,” the dwarf continued, either not noticing or studiously ignoring Fenris’ sudden stiffness, “they’re even taught in their little Circle schools how to tell the difference. Isn’t that interesting?”

It was. Why had the templar he’d spoken with not said so, if it was true?

Varric raised one finger. “Oh, and one other thing.” He pointed at Fenris. “Whatever you decide here. Whatever you choose. Choose it. And be done.” Any wisps of playfulness were long gone now; there was a hardness in Varric’s eyes that reminded Fenris of Aveline’s fury. “You may not have noticed – you may not even care – but what you’re doing, what you’ve been doing since you clapped eyes on Hawke’s magic, has been destroying him.”

Fenris leaned back, his body ramrod straight. “I haven’t harmed your precious mage, dwarf.”

“There, see. That? What you’re doing there?” Varric put his feet firmly on the ground and slammed forward. “That’s what I’m talking about. Half the time, you’re standing right there beside him, letting him lead you all over hill and back alley to rescue little orphans or save kittens or whatever the hell Hawke’s up to that day. And the other half, you’re backing away and treating him like you just caught him eating children for brunch. Andraste’s girl parts, Elf, even you have to understand how that might mess someone up.”

He stood, nearly scratching the table with his armor. “Of course,” he sneered. “I should have known. No opinions but those that agree, hm?”

Varric sighed. “I’m not telling you what to think.” He stood, too, but much slower. He seemed resigned. “I’m telling you to make up your mind. No more switching stances, going back and forth. No more making Hawke think he has a chance with you if he doesn’t.” Varric put one hand on the table, then pushed back. His mug wobbled a bit, but didn’t spill. “I’m asking you. Stop being cruel. Cut him off clean.”

Fenris reeled back. His hands clenched, unclenched. He turned on his heel and left.

* * *

Fenris paced his rooms.

After everything, he only had so much information. There was likely more to be found in these books Varric had mentioned, but those weren’t an option for him. All that was left was the information he’d been handed. The danger the templar had said plain as day, the ease from which a healer could turn into a killer. The small piece of information he’d gotten from Varric before the man had gotten about as protective as the guardswoman, that spirits and demons were distinct, at least in intent. That all mages faced the danger of dealing with them, though speaking with them could not be compared to making a contract with one.

He paced and paced, his bare feet padding up and down the halls, his gaze roaming emptily over room after room. Clean again; the dust that had begun to collect was missing from the cabinets once more. It should have annoyed him, but he had a sneaking suspicion that he knew exactly who had taken care of the dust and dirt. He knew only one man who would do such a thing.

Or perhaps his mind had circled around Hawke so much these past hours that all things seemed to point to the man.

The point remained that Hawke stood at a precipice, his toes dangling off the edge as the man peered down, at any moment ready to take the plunge and become a monster beyond compare.

Yet, when Fenris thought of such a thing, his reaction was not normal. It made no sense. Never had he thought of a mage turning into an abomination and felt such a tightness in his chest. He wasn’t fool enough to not know what it was. But _why_ would he feel such terror at the image of Hawke’s body morphing into such a beast? Why did he want to reach out to such a creature, as if doing so might halt the process somehow?

No. He knew why. It was because Hawke had shown himself to not only be a mage, _but also a good man._

He could not reconcile the two. He should have. In his mind, he knew the capability was there. Mages were not evil. He knew that. It was the power, the unlimited potential dangling just before their fingertips, that would inevitably call to them too strongly to resist. All those who could access such power would do so, and they would abuse it.

Yet, no matter how often Fenris caught glimpses of the power lying within Hawke’s grasp, he rarely saw the man reach out for it. And every time he did, it was for the sake of another. What did that make Hawke?

A mage. A mage, and a good man.

He slammed his fist into the wall, taking perverse pleasure when the tile cracked. Let him see his little ghost fix that.

How could Fenris stand beside a man who could go berserk at any time?

How could he stand to not, when such a man needed protection?

Perhaps all this rumination was for nothing. He knew how he’d reacted. When the dwarf had spoken of mages meeting spirits all the time and he’d clenched his fists. His reaction had not been one of fear or disgust. It had been one of fury. Unreasoning fury, at he thought of Hawke falling prey to such a creature. Not because he’d thought of Hawke as an instigator. But because he’d thought of Hawke as a victim.

He had wanted to step between the man and the monster. His instinct had been to _protect_.

He punched the wall again, then once more.

There was one last avenue of questioning he had left, one person he had yet to try. It was a dangerous choice, one borne more of emotion and prejudice and, perhaps, far too much trust. But since he was already trailing an unsteady path in that direction, he might as well stop dragging his heels. It was a mistake. He already knew it was. But it was his mistake to make.

Freedom, in all its bitter glory.

* * *

He knocked on Hawke’s door.

Unsurprisingly, Hawke’s new servant Bodahn was the one to answer the door. The man recognized him now, after the events that had turned Fenris’ conviction to something wavering once again. At least the recognition got him a quick entry into the building. He was a bit surprised to not find Hawke’s mother present in the room; instead he was greeted with a loud bark from Hawke’s mabari hound. He walked up to the creature as Bodahn spoke.

“Master Hawke should be back momentarily, if you would like to wait?”

He shifted on his feet, his gaze taking in the fireplace, the wide, open loft of the ceiling and stairs, so similar to the building he’d taken for his own. But this one was Hawke’s, in a way the mansion he squatted in could never be. His gaze caught on the shields with the Hawke insignia. “Fine,” he said, though he didn’t want to wait. He looked to Bodahn, the old man still standing by his side. He stiffened. “What?”

Bodahn held up his hands. “Oh, nothing, nothing. Just wanted to thank you for saving Master Hawke’s life, is all. Don’t know what would have happened to him if you hadn’t shown up.”

Fenris opened his mouth, ready to say he knew exactly what would have happened – only to stop. He closed it again, his mind circling itself as it replayed that moment in his mind. Hadn’t he, himself, thought Hawke nearly dead? Hadn’t he raced in because he’d thought Hawke about to be cut down? While Hawke had power, he could not call upon it in an instant. In order to do that, he would have needed to turn to a demon. To offer himself to it.

And while he might have been able to argue the possibility of such an occurrence just a few days ago, now it rang hollow. Because Hawke hadn’t even been willing to accept the help of his spirit friend, despite how much the man ran on about it being good. And while he’d noticed that Hawke’s reticence meant the spirits were dangerous, he’d failed to consider that Hawke had refused to cross that line, even as he thought he might die.

It made him stumble back, nearly tripping over Hawke’s mabari. The dog barked and moved away. It made him jump back to his senses. Bodahn, though the man had to have noticed Fenris’ lapse, said nothing. Fenris watched him go over to his son and start looking over the boy’s… things, and he felt something great and heavy wash over him. He ducked his head.

All the books in the world could tell him every nuance of the Fade, its denizens. Magic and its capabilities. But they would not teach him about Hawke.

He thought back to what Varric had said, finally understanding the man’s request. Hawke had offered Fenris his assistance without asking for anything in return. At first, Fenris had expected a price. Because there was always a price. But no. And how many times had he turned away from Hawke’s kindness, thrown the man’s magic in his face, turned away in revulsion of the man’s abilities?

How many times in the past year had Fenris tested him?

He looked around the room once more. Small baubles topped the mantle, a clock and a few books, each looking worn with use and age. The logs crackled in the hearth, the flames lighting the red-rimmed rug on the floor, the burnt oak of the wooden tables lined around the room, papers and quills and small chests cluttered upon their faces. The chandelier sparkled like topaz in the fire’s glow.

This was Hawke’s home. And for his own curiosity, he had been about to attack the man in it. He turned to leave.

The front door opened.

Fenris froze.

“Ah! Master Hawke! No messages for you,” Bodahn said, and Fenris listened to the short shuffle of footsteps as Hawke drew near, the man’s gaze on his sleeves as he worked the leather off. “But you do have a visitor.”

Hawke looked up.

Their gazes caught. It shouldn’t have meant anything. It was a simple meeting of the eyes, a touch of light upon light. But something in Fenris fell away at the sight. Some heaviness on his shoulders, in his chest, lightened. It almost hurt. It shook his breath.

He stepped forward. “Hawke.”

Something in that gaze, in those blue eyes, reminded Fenris of his first glimpse of the ocean. A rare bright day on the Wounded Coast, the light of the sun reflecting fire on the surface. He remembered swimming beneath it, opening his eyes and seeing the light splinter as if through cracks into the darkness of the water’s depths. At the time, he had thought it more ethereal than anything else; something beautiful was never linked to the idea of magic. Not then.

“Fenris.” Hawke smiled. There were no cracks in it; the man seemed genuinely pleased to see him. But Fenris was looking now. He saw something. Something that looked as if that weight that had lifted off of Fenris’ shoulders had landed squarely on this man’s instead.

Varric had told him to decide. To stop dancing back and forth along the edge of dawn and embrace either sunlight or darkness. In this moment, he knew exactly which side that light was on.

He grabbed it.

“I came to see how you were doing.”

Hawke stared at him. The man’s entire body went still, almost statuesque. Fenris was reminded of the thin, painted glass of one of Danarius’ 'glass portraits,’ in which the glass itself was inked to produce different colors as it cooled. Alive, bright, yet held unnaturally still. And then Azzan came alive before him, cheeks flushing slightly as he grinned. He looked almost boyish. It left Fenris floundering. “I’m all right,” he said. “It really was mostly mana exhaustion. The wound is healing well, too. My…” Hawke hesitated, then said, “the spirit. It’s helping me heal. It was upset I didn’t let it do more, but–”

“Why didn’t you?” Fenris asked, even as he told himself to stop. To not wipe that childish joy from the man’s face.

The smile dimmed, but it didn’t go away. Something far too wise and understanding sparked in the oceans of those eyes. Hawke knew that question was why he had come. “Because someone I know would regret it.”

How could he respond to that? To knowing, _knowing_ , that the someone Hawke spoke of was himself? That Hawke hadn’t accepted even the creature he’d made a pact with because Fenris has shown distrust? That Hawke had allowed himself to fall into death rather than become something that would disgust him?

Hawke had chosen a loyalty to Fenris before the loyalty to this spirit. He had chosen a shaky friendship over the firm alliance with this creature of faith.

Hawke had chosen him.

_Stop being cruel. Cut him off clean._

“All right, then, Hawke,” he said, and stepped away. “I can only assume you’ll be wanting to go out and do a circuit around Darktown soon?”

“Tomorrow,” Hawke said, and grinned. “You offering to come?”

“I could use the exercise.” He smiled. That wide, boyish grin returned. Inside of him, something angry and clawing finally settled.


End file.
